Walls of Barbed wire fencing stood tall surrounding a small chapel in Belfast Ireland.

The clamor of gunfire echoed throughout the forbidden streets, and every few minutes toned the cry of another victim. Father Patrick Doherty gazed down from his limestone balcony, to see the spawning ground of riots that he once knew as home. Squads of soldiers and steel tanks flourished among the rubble that once was a street. Tattooed upon the still standing brick walls were messages such as, �Soldiers are Bastards� and �We shall never be at peace!� The once blue skies had been blackened by gun smoke, and enlightened by flames.
With rocks in hand, small children, some as young as five or six, aliened themselves on a Belfast street. They all wore tattered clothing and scars on their faces. �It�s a sixer!� shouted a boy from behind a dumpster. The children all swarmed into the street and hurled the largest stones they could find at the passing vehicle. This was a favorite game they played, and their playground was the vacant buildings, infested with rats. Catheriene Orr always danced amongst the shattered glass and made faces at the soldiers. Catherine thought of herself to be invincible. One day while playing with the other children, she spotted a young man, probably fifteen or so hiding behind a car. Catherine figured he was looking for somebody to play with. She approached the boy from behind, and gently tapped him on the shoulder. The boy sprung up in terror, turned, and shot Catherine point blank in the face.
The pipe organ released high pitched cries that bounced off the walls of the chapel. A small wooden coffin was displayed before a crowd of melancholy faces dressed in black. Bouquets of flowers hung around the church interior. Father Patrick Doherty stood before the audience with a solemn look plastered upon his face. Malcom Orr, Catherine�s father, sat in the front pew. The priest flashed an empathetic look to Mr. Orr, then stepped onto the podium. A placid silence filled the room. Father Doherty spoke of what an atrocity it is to lose such a young child. He read a few passages from the Bible, and finished with a prayer. Father Doherty then stepped down from the podium with a flushed look upon his skin. Malcom Orr felt his face swell up in tears and could not hold back from crying.
Doherty relaxed in his dimly candle lit study. He watched the slippery orange and red shadows swirl on his wall. The candle light intrigued his eyes, but remorse filled his heart. An inspiration ran through Doherty�s fingertips. He quickly picked up his pen and wrote: